


Handle With Care

by TheLionInMyBed



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bad Jokes, Banter, Fingon's disastrous flirting, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maedhros' disastrous everything, Massage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sharing a Bed, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 08:37:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7307935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/pseuds/TheLionInMyBed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Dagor Aglareb, Maedhros would like to be left alone to brood. Fingon would like them to be alone together. They reach a compromise i.e. do exactly what Fingon wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handle With Care

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emilyenrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilyenrose/gifts).



> The title was suggested by the extremely problematic [EmilyEnrose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/emilyenrose) and I'm regretting ever doing this for her.

“They’re already calling it the Glorious Battle,” Fingon said. His face was alight beneath the streaks of grime and gore and he looked far younger than a man that had commanded armies or crossed the Grinding Ice had any right to.

Maedhros, feeling every last one of his years like the weight of his mail hauberk, forced the brightest smile he could in answer. “Your father’s strategy was wise and your soldiers fought near as valiantly as their captain.” He paused to let Fingon preen. “Has Maglor-”

“Made a song of it? Not yet.”

He needed a bath, he needed sleep, he needed to sit down before his legs gave out. But what he needed wasn’t terribly important in the face of Fingon’s joy. “I’ll make sure he dedicates a verse to your exploits. Or two.”

“Only two? Out of- how long was his last epic? It _felt_ like five hundred verses.”

“Daring doesn’t go as far as it once did - you’ve set the bar too high. You should have started with scaling trees to rescue kittens rather than mountains to snatch the Enemy’s prisoners out from beneath his nose.”

“Does Morgoth still have a nose? He’s not back to being a mountain himself?”

“Of course he has one. How do you think he smells?” A joke told so often through their childhood that the words were all worn out.

Fingon laughed anyway. “Terrible!”

“But probably better than I do now. Please excuse me until I am fit company again.” Maedhros bowed. It worsened the ache in his shoulder but not unbearably so.

“Of course. Do you need a h-” Fingon caught himself, caught himself catching himself and pulled a face. “Do you need a hand?” he said deliberately, nodding to the splintered shield still strapped to Maedhros’ right arm.

As though he had not demanded enough of Fingon already. “Thank you but I’ll manage. Or find a servant to manage for me.” Just an hour. An hour to sit quietly by himself, not talking, not biting back the urge to snap or scream or stab something.

“No need for that! I should think most of the camp is celebrating and it would be churlish to drag them away from it.”

It would be far more churlish to expect a crown prince to wait upon him but refusing Fingon directly would be worst of all. He forced another smile, hoping it did not look as brittle as it felt. “Thank you. I would be grateful.”

They walked to Maedhros’ tent without speaking further, Fingon humming cheerfully, Maedhros focusing on on keeping his steps even - there was always the temptation to let his right foot drag to spare his shoulder. Soldiers weaved about them, drunken, laughing and most importantly alive. Maedhros returned their jests and greetings with a false cheer so long practiced even he could scarcely tell it from the real thing.

When they reached the tent Fingon ran the last few steps so that he might hold back the canvas solicitously.

 _I’m not_ entirely _helpless_ , Maedhros might have said but he had some vestige of self control left and he was not Caranthir to snarl at every perceived slight. He ducked inside and stood a moment, eyes screwed shut, trying to pretend that he was not uncomfortably aware of Fingon’s presence at his back, pulling the tent flaps closed behind them.

The braziers were already lit. There was clean water and a change of clothes laid out but not a servant in sight. Alone then, with his own fast diminishing reserves of patience and Fingon, who deserved so much better than this.

“Arm!” Fingon ordered, reaching out expectantly.

Maedhros had lost most of the feeling there some hours ago which was probably for the best. Obedient, he held it out so that Fingon might unstrap the shield. “If you promise to give it back when you’re done this time,” he said and thought he sounded almost normal. Certainly Fingon smiled but that meant very little - he always feigned amusement however weak Maedhros’ jokes.

“Sit down,” Fingon said, helping him unbuckle his vambraces. It was only the left one that he needed assistance with but when Fingon started upon the right it did not seem worth the argument. “You look dead upon your feet.”

“When do I not?” he said, pride stung enough to keep him standing, no matter that he had been ready to collapse moments before.

“Don’t then. But I’m getting a sore neck staring up at you,” Fingon said with the air of a man playing his trump.

Maedhros sat down upon the bed as directed, carefully not glaring. “You needn’t bother with the rest,” he said. “I’ve slept in mail before.”

“It can’t be very comfortable. Besides, I thought you planned to bathe?”

“Later, maybe.” If he admitted that he did Fingon would probably offer to help with that as well and there was a limit to what could be borne.

“How’s your shoulder?” Fingon said mockingly- not mockingly. This was Fingon and he was concerned, nothing more.

“Fine,” Maedhros lied anyway. “Scarcely worse than usual.”

Fingon frowned, dark eyebrows drawing in. “It hurts then?” He likely knew the answer and Maedhros did not know what joy there was in making him admit it.

“Only a little.”

“Let me help you out of your armour and then I’ll see what I can do for it.” Fingon said, reaching for the sword belt cinched about his mail shirt.

“You’ve done enough,” Maedhros said, catching his wrist. “More than enough.”

“I think it’s me that gets to decide that.”

“You must be tired yourself,” he said desperately.

“Not too tired to help you,” Fingon said, dropping smoothly to his knees. He reached for the belt again, hesitated and added, “If that’s what you want.”

That was the worst part, being forced to ask- But no. Maedhros could tell Fingon to leave and he would for all that his feelings hurt because all he had wanted was to aid a friend. A friend who was snapping like an injured wolf for no reason at all. “It is,” he said. Lied. Said. “Thank you.”

Fingon beamed, cheeks dimpling in a way that seemed incongruous for a man with at least as many deaths to his name as Maedhros. Likely it was more but no one else seemed to be counting.

There was blood and dirt ground into his mail and the links all down his right arm had been split by a blow his shield had only half caught - his shoulder’s range of motion was poor at the best of times and he hadn’t been fast enough. It would need an armourer's attention upon the morrow but it had saved him the need of a healer. Even so the joint had stiffened badly enough that without Fingon’s help he wouldn’t have been able to get the hauberk off. With his aid it was awkward and what, years ago, he might have called painful.

He picked at his nails as Fingon started on the lacings to his gambeson. How many had died today by his hand? How many more at his command? It was a monstrous measure to hold himself to but it was the best way he had to remind himself that he wasn’t who he had been. He was strong now, capable and free.

Humming again, Fingon wriggled out of his own gear so that they were both dressed only in sweat stained cotton undershirts. He splashed his face with water from the basin, doing little more than smearing the dirt around, and then climbed up onto the bed, shuffling around so that his crossed legs pressed against Maedhros’ back.

Maedhros turned his head so that he might watch him out of the corner of his eye.

Fingon paused in his humming long enough to ask, “May I?”

Thirty years worth of ‘no’s waiting to be spoken and still Maedhros inclined his head in a gesture as close to acquiescence as he could bring himself to make. Perhaps Fingon would put the stiffness of his neck down to the injury.

Fingon placed his hands upon his shoulders and Maedhros did not flinch or shudder or let his breathing falter. It was a long moment in which Fingon did not move and Maedhros wondered if he expected something more from him, or if he was- what? He had stopped humming which was probably significant though Maedhros did not know why.

The fingers digging into the muscles of his back were strong and calloused, not painful but with the promise of pain buried- No. He stopped straining to see over his shoulder and stared into the flames shivering in the brazier instead, picturing the amber glow of Fingon’s skin, the shadows they would throw across his features. Making him smile was worth this discomfort. Even if he couldn’t see Fingon’s face. Breath in his ears, hands about his throat, it could be anyone behind him-

Old fears, long conquered. Maedhros did not move and his heart did not beat faster. It was Fingon, whom he trusted, and besides he had a knife.

“I like your neck.”

Maedhros started. That was less expected than a blow. “ _What?_ ”

“I just- your neck.” Fingon leant around so that they were almost nose to nose. He had the decency to look embarrassed. “I used to miss your hair but I like being able to see your neck properly. It’s a fine neck.”

“Thank you,” Maedhros said for want of a more sensible reply. Then, because Fingon still looked flustered, “I’ve always thought the Nauglamír was wasted on Finrod.”

It was not the first time Fingon had paid him a wildly inappropriate compliment though it had been a while. He remembered near a thousand years ago, awkwardly come of age and trying to think of a polite response to a younger Fingon’s almost obsessive interest in his knees.

Fingon must have remembered too for he dropped a hand to squeeze Maedhros’ knee and then pulled back, smirking like a boy with stolen fruit, sheepish and defiant. “I never dared do that at the time.”

“A pity. I had better knees then. Fewer scabs.”

Fingon opened his mouth, probably to say something about how he didn’t mind scabs, but things were strange enough already and Maedhros spoke over him. “I thought it was my shoulder you were concerned with,” he said because suddenly that seemed the least awkward topic available.

“All parts of you,” Fingon said. “But a promise is a promise.” He resettled himself, kneeling so that his thighs bracketed Maedhros’ hips and his chest pressed far too close to Maedhros’ back. It was a position that left Fingon fairly off balance and an elbow to the gut would- _No_.

Fingon’s hands were warm and, once Maedhros had forced himself to relax into it, the touch was not entirely unpleasant. Uncomfortably intimate, which was ridiculous when they were both fully dressed, and he wondered just how badly he was overreacting to something entirely innocent. As long as he kept his knees covered, surely there was no cause for concern.

Fingon’s thumbs were rubbing small circles on either side of his spine and, without the weight of his shield and armour, the worst of the pain was starting to recede. He must have sighed or given some other sign of relief, though he couldn’t have said what, for Fingon’s hands stilled. “Does that hurt?” he asked?

Maedhros blinked and sat up straighter, muscles rigid again, feeling vaguely ashamed. “Of course not,” he said as he always said when he heard those words, soft and full of feigned concern.

“I can stop.”

 _Don’t_. But he couldn’t say that. “Do as you will.”

“I’m going to press harder then. You’re so tense I feel like I’m trying to coax a statue to relax.”

“Mother likely still has that sculpture of me out in the garden somewhere.” If she hadn’t taken a mallet to it. That’s what he would have done. “If you’d rather try your luck with that-” then what? Trekk back to Tirion? Pointlessly spiteful, as was half of what he said to Fingon these days. It wasn't fair and Maedhros trailed off, pretending to be distracted as Fingon went to work upon his back again.

He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the grounding touch of Fingon’s hands and not the queasy knowledge of his own vulnerability. There were knots of tension strung all through him and Fingon worked those out first, kneading with a careful pressure that drew another groan from him despite his best efforts. Fingon was kind enough to act as though he hadn’t heard.

It felt- good. He couldn’t keep pretending that it didn’t and he trusted Fingon, he did, for all that part of him was still waiting for him to get to the _point_. There was a strange lassitude creeping through him, blunting the fear long settled deep within his bones, and he must have relaxed again for his head was drooping and the fire in the brazier had sunk down to coals when next he looked. He felt odd; his limbs gone slack, warm where his back pressed against Fingon’s chest. Some part of him screamed that this was wrong, that this would end how these things always ended, but only quietly. He ignored it.

Fingon had given up on his shoulders and was stroking the short hair at the nape of Maedhros’ neck with his fingertips. He hadn’t licked him yet though which, for Fingon, showed impressive self control.

Maedhros had been right before - it was not hard to turn and push Fingon over onto his side. He went easily, flopping down amidst the blankets, looking almost smug. His dark eyes threw back the brazier’s flames, shining near as golden as the wire in his braids.

“Now that you’ve heroically rescued me from muscle cramps,” Maedhros said. “Would you please take a moment for yourself?”

Fingon frowned and opened his mouth.

“No,” Maedhros said, dropping a blanket over him. “Don’t argue. Get some rest.”

“I never could refuse your orders,” Fingon said cheerfully, burrowing deeper into the bed. Once he had preferred to sleep sprawled atop the covers, limbs spread out to cover every inch of mattress, but that had been before the Ice. Now he curled up small and gave Maedhros a hopeful look.

“A poor quality in a prince. Now hush.” There were half a hundred things that needed to be done but all save one could wait for morning. Maedhros lay down beside him, confident, for once, that he was doing the right thing. Fingon, beaming, shuffled over to make space and then, once he was settled, pulled him in closer. A leg hooked over his hips, Fingon’s hair tickling his nose and his head tucked snug beneath Maedhros’ chin. He couldn’t sleep like this himself but that was scarcely the point and he could tolerate it easily enough.

“Do you feel better?” Fingon asked, slurred and likely already drowsing.

“Yes,” Maedhros said and was surprised, upon reflection, to realise it was true.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr [here](http://thelioninmybed.tumblr.com), come say hi!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Handle With Care](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8763679) by [knight_tracer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knight_tracer/pseuds/knight_tracer)




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